


homecoming

by cryptographies



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptographies/pseuds/cryptographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which harry returns from an ever-so-slightly botched mission to an unconventional welcome. written for the dressing room 3 meme on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	homecoming

 

well, whoever’s broken into his home, they’re at least being honest about it. he can’t exactly call it _polite_ , but at least it’s considerate. and no damage on the door, which is thoughtful of them.

almost as if they had a key.

he keeps his jacket on, umbrella tucked under his arm, checks his study first. everything absolutely as he left it, computer folded on the desk, the empty glass he’d forgotten to clear away before he left for assignment, and -

the footsteps on the stairs are undisguised, the intruder uninterested in concealing their presence, and harry _knows_ suddenly what he’s come home to. he doesn’t turn around, just sets the umbrella by the desk. the footsteps draw closer, crossing the hall in long, easy strides. into the office.

“welcome back, galahad,” and they stop right behind him, the words a low purr into his ear as harry starts to unbutton his jacket. “finally back in one piece, i see.”

“despite my own best efforts, you mean?” and he starts to turn his head, but the hand that reaches around him catches his jaw, brings his eyes front again.

“that’s enough of that out of you.” the murmur is dangerous, resonant. “you don’t get to play clever after all that. running off after bombs without clearance isn’t the best way to butter me up.”

that tone makes it clear what this is, how this will go, and there is a tingle at the back of harry’s neck. “i suppose not.” despite his best efforts his voice is a little breathless already. “i’ve been rather cruel, haven’t i?”

and the hands slide around, catch the lapels, carefully pull off his jacket. “that’s one word for it. ‘inconsiderate’. ‘arrogant’.” the sound of steps again, a sliver of black and grey in his peripheral vision. movements that must be his clothing being carefully folded, laid across the other chair. “‘discourteous’?” the subtle accent trips delightfully around the syllables, and harry has to restrain the smile that threatens to find his lips.

“all of those, i should think.”

“false humility’ll get you nowhere, galahad.”

“then what will?”

“we’ll just have to see, won’t we? take off your ring.”

and he does, without hesitation, setting it on the desk. “the chair?”

“the chair.”

so he sits, keeping his eyes down as he settles back, puts his hands on the armrests with deliberate slowness before he finally straightens. makes eye contact, _finally,_ and feels a pang of guilt in his chest.

the terms are set - given names are not welcome, not right now, and to let one slip... so he fixes the name ‘merlin’ in the forefront of his mind, lets the codename slip whispered from his lips. _merlin_ looks exhausted. worn. and harry knows enough to know that this is the aftermath of worry and stress, an affirmation of power for having felt powerless.

he gives willingly.

the gaze stretches for the longest of moments and as merlin leans forward, down, harry tilts his face up. welcomes the hard kiss that steals his breath, the hands that pin his wrists to the armrests, the sharp nip at his lower lip. he only realises he’s leaning forward in the chair when he’s sharply shoved back, hears the warning “pay attention” in his ear.

staying still is torture. practiced fingers slacken his tie, unfasten the top button of his collar, slide beneath the braces to straighten them against his chest. every brush is an electric spark against his skin, and his breathing comes faster, now, in anticipatory pants. he _aches_ to be touched.

merlin seems satisfied when he stands, the tie slipping through a hand, gaze roving slowly. every move and mannerism is predatory. “no touching,” and the words are practically a rumble now, “and you do exactly as you’re told.”

“without question,” he breathes, watching as merlin kneels slowly, deliberately. “i’m yours.”

“bloody right you are. legs apart.” a shift forward, kneeling between harry’s thighs, thumbnail grazing the placket of the wool trousers. “all mine.”

and that is what drags his heart into his throat, starts the faint tremor of effort to hold his position. he wants to rock his hips forward, he wants to reach out, he wants to be kissed senseless and fucked blind, but he is at his lover’s mercy. and said lover is not in the most indulgent mood. the most encouragement he dares to let out is a faint gasp at the palm that settles, slowly presses down, and even that draws a sharp flick upwards of the dark green eyes.

“desperate already, galahad?” the squeeze is agonisingly slow. it forces the breath out of him in agonising degrees. “that’s disappointing.”

“ _please_ ,” is all he can manage, because despite his best efforts his control is rapidly slipping away, and it’s not quite time for that yet. “ _merlin_...”

he hadn’t been expecting the plea to do much, but after a long moment merlin relents, sliding the zip down, sliding the firm pressure of the side of his thumb _up_ , and harry fights to keep the shudder minimised. his knuckles are white from effort on the armrests. there is a single soft creak of the furniture when the waistband being drawn down makes him force his shoulders back into the chair. the braces’ taut line of pressure against his spine is incessant, distracting.

but the long, slow drag of skin against skin, that takes over his senses. has him arching, tipping back his head, the top of the chair icy against the feverish margin of neck above his collar, and then he’s yanked forward again to meet the stern gaze. “pay _attention_ , galahad. _undivided_.”

he looks at his favourite tie wrapped around merlin’s fist, swallows. “yes, merlin.” his perception of the world is rapidly shrinking to this room, just them, just the hand wrapped loosely around the base of his _aching_ erection, and he is stretched to breaking point. the whisper slips out of him unbidden, but “i trust you,” is not anything he would wish to take back.

merlin’s expression is softer as he strokes another touch up, lips parting. “settle, galahad... there’s a good lad...” the husky undertone does nothing to help the fog over harry’s better judgement. “i’ve got you. always got you.” and his other palm is sliding up the outside of harry’s leg, making the tremor obvious against the firm hand.

“mmm,” he manages, ineloquently, because the pad of one fingertip is teasing at his crown and the warm press of touch is moving further up, across thigh and hip, stomach and chest, pressing him back into the chair with unspoken permission to strain against it, and he can practically feel the elastic snap of his self-control. his grip on the armrests fails him in favour of an instinctive clutch at the seat for better leverage, his only restraint external, and _dear god_. the pleasure is constant, _insistent_ , and the leave to abandon himself to it without regard -

“- gorgeous like this,” he hears dimly, and it is hard to align his mind against the bliss to even understand the words, but it’s worth it, it’s always worth it. “no control at all, but you don’t need it. i’m looking after you now, aren’t i? looking after you _properly_. you’d put your life in my hands, wouldn’t you, harry?”

he can’t manage words, just keens what he hopes reads as an affirmative, earns a rough press back into the chair, and he can scarcely breathe past the bliss.

“treat it with a little more respect than _you_ do,” the gently barbed complaint is punctuated with a soft, almost delicate lick, and the way the groan tears its way out of harry’s throat would be embarrassing if he had the presence of mind. “but i know. _you_ know. and this is as good an apology as any for misusing what’s mine, isn’t it?” another lick, and he is on the verge of losing his mind.

the deliberate combination of a mouth over him and a single firm stroke, a single long pull and _suck_ and the warmth, the wet, the _eyes on his_ , and he is powerless.

“ _fuck_ ,” is all he can manage, a single disobedient clutch of the hand spread against his chest, and he’s _gone_. head thrown back painfully against the chair, every fibre in his body gone tightly strung as piano wire, and he swears his heart stops, his breath stops. the catharsis is a sharp and agonising relief, and when he can finally blink the remaining spots from his vision he feels like he’s run a marathon.

“welcome back,” comes the amused murmur, and he focuses on his lover with no small degree of difficulty.

harry can’t fight the smile, riding high on the crash of endorphins. “i think you very nearly killed me.”

“maybe you’re getting old.” a squeeze with one hand at harry’s thighs, before getting to cleaning him up. trousers, shirt, tie, all still immaculate. merlin’s own glasses, the corner of his lips, the other hand, not quite so unruffled by the affair.

“how rude.” he reaches out, leans down, demands a kiss. “you come into _my house_ -”

“steady, grandad.” the quiet laugh against his lips is practically better than the orgasm. “right. tea?”

“tea.”

not a bad homecoming at all.

**Author's Note:**

> my first posted fic in a long time, and my first ever on ao3, so i hope it was alright! thank you for clicking!


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